


Until Tomorrow

by leopoldjamesfitz



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, FitzSimmons Secret Santa, I have to apologize to, This started as a pleasant florist/tattoo artist au, and evolved to this clusterfuck of a mess, for this state, superirishbreakfasttea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9134074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopoldjamesfitz/pseuds/leopoldjamesfitz
Summary: It started with a new shop owner sidling up beside her, evolved to a friendship and then became so much more - a co-dependence. Too bad life always has another thing in mind. Working title: Fitzsimmons Fall in Love At Different Times and Realize It At The Worst Possible Moments.The Florist/Tattoo Artist AU that evolved into a clusterfucking mess, mind my language. Please read with caution that this is The Worst.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuperIrishBreakfastTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperIrishBreakfastTea/gifts).



As inevitable as life is, Jemma was still surprised to see the ‘for lease’ sign on the shop next to hers. Mack, the owner of the shop and the building itself, stumbled out one bright morning and taped the sign up just as she slipped down the sidewalk and she stopped, staring at it curiously.

In the three years she’s been running her parlour, she’s gotten to know the people around her – her mother always said she was extremely friendly and her extrovert personality helped with it, naturally, but she’s almost shocked to see Mack giving up on the tiny bookshop that he and his wife have been managing long before her time.

“My Momma’s sick,” he says with a shrug when she asks, like it’s the most obvious of answers and she nods a little, feeling sort of sad and nostalgic suddenly. “So we’re moving to take care of her, at least for a little while.”

She likes Mack enough, he’s strict about rules and only bends them if it’s absolutely necessary and it took her two years for him to call her anything but Simmons, but she’s sad for him and suddenly struck with the idea that she’ll be stationed next to someone else. Even if this is a slower part of town, she can’t imagine he’ll have any trouble getting someone else to take his place in the plaza. Nor can she imagine that someone else will let her get off with as much noise and sidewalk hogging as Mack and Elena have.

After her apologies, the nagging question slips out and he eyes her carefully, another sullen shrug. This bookstore had been his life, she remembers, and she doesn’t know if he’ll be able to pick it up again once everything is settled and she thinks he knows that too. “I’ve got a buddy interested but he’s so picky, likes his location now more than ever even if the landlord is a bit of a prick.” She has to laugh at the sharpness of his tone. “Other than that, Jemma, not sure who’s going to have to deal with your heavy metal now.”

He winks and slides back into the shop and she waves at Elena who’d been watching them from the window as she opens up.

 

* * *

 

It happens a month and a half later, when she’s running a bit late (something she’s never done before in her life and never will again), and she sees the truck in front of their building and an angry man standing outside it, palms on his hips and an even angrier tone slipping through his lips. It takes her a moment to recognize his accent as Scottish, and another moment for Daisy to move to stand beside her and look at her with a curious gaze.

“So, boss,” the brunette raises her eyebrows quietly. There’s a question of how Jemma “I’m exceptionally prepared at all times” Simmons managed to be late for once about to come – she knows Daisy well – but before she can open her mouth and ask it, the irate man in front of them sparks up again.

“How the hell do you expect to keep your job if you’re so bloody incompetent?” The young man he’s speaking to pinks and moves to grab a box of potted roses and scurries into shop without another question. The unknown man, her new neighbor, turns slightly to their side and picks up his phone, beginning to walk away, tugging what looks like a cigarette pack from his pocket.  After a moment, she can hear his rough voice say, “Mack, I don’t know how you talked me into this.”

Daisy laughs the moment he turns the corner and places her hand palm side down on her shoulder, leaning into her view. “Great!” She says, the tone of her voice sarcastic and humorous. “We’re next to the Grinch. And here I thought he only liked caves at the top of mountains.”

 

* * *

 

It does not get better from there. Leo Fitz – who is the first person she’s ever heard to so much growl at the idea of someone using his first name – is a callous, consistently angry man who somehow flips it all off in the face of a customer or even Mack – who comes down to visit once or twice a month to keep up on their home and see if the tenants have managed to successfully keep the building in one piece. But not to her, never to her. The only words they’ve shared have been particularly hateful and she can’t seem to think of what she’s done to him personally besides _maybe_ listen to her music a tick too loud.

She doesn’t think he’d appreciate the soft screams of nervous tattoo-ees either, though.

Daisy and Bobbi find it amusing how much this bothers her and have no issues remind her daily that the probability of pleasing everyone on the planet is too slim for this obsession of hers to be successful but she simply reminds them that Mack had been a little worse at the beginning of their odd friendship and he’d even cried a little when he’d said goodbye.

(Daisy quipped, “that was probably because he was emotionally attached to the building, Jem, not to you” and got a pillow thrown at her head.)

Nonetheless, it doesn’t stop her from being incredibly polite to every damn complaint – some of them occurring more than once a day – he has for her. She thinks that pisses him off more, and his complaints become few and far between eventually. But not before a regular client of hers, Hunter, decides to frequent his shop while waiting for Bobbi to finish up – his personal favorite for more reasons than just her artwork.

Leo – _Fitz_ – comes in with Hunter looking pleased with himself, despite the fact that he’s being dragged by his ear.

“Bloody hell, Simmons,” he sneers when he releases the hold on Hunter’s ear. “Keep your riffraff to yourself.”

Hunter, looking suddenly less pleased turns on him, holding his hand to his heart. “Mate,” he whines a little, trying to catch his gaze but Fitz is staring straight at her. “That hurt, all I did was pick at a flower.”

Fitz turns on him quickly, glowering in a way that unsettles her. The look on Hunter’s face has turned from amusement to fear and he raises his eyebrows when the man glances down at him and sighs softly. “ _Mate_ ,” the emphasis on the word is unnecessary and his annoyance is at a top level. “You just destroyed an entire arrangement for a wedding that I have done. And the wedding is tomorrow.”

Jemma opens her mouth to apologize because she knows Hunter won’t, but without her knowledge, Bobbi has slipped out, the customer finished and pink with pain. “Hunter,” she sighs softly, placing her hands on her hips. “Get in here.” There’s no question in her voice and the smaller man quickly dips away from Fitz’s unwavering glance and into the back room. “Sorry, Fitzy,” Bobbi laughs a little as he turns his head toward her. “I’ll kick his ass for you later.”

Fitz nods and leaves the shop without another word, the cigarette pack in his palm before he leaves the shop and Jemma turns quickly toward Bobbi, a question in her glance. Bobbi shrugs wordlessly. “Fitzy?” She asks, biting back a laugh.

Bobbi smirks a little, grabbing the doorknob and stepping back. “He’s nice,” she tells her genuinely. “You should try to get to know him.” And then she moves into the room and she can hear soft shouting through the fairly soundproof rooms. Turning back toward the front, she stared toward the street and furrowed her eyebrows.

Hadn’t she already tried that several times over?

 

* * *

 

She learns soon that she’s the only one that Fitz can’t seem to get along with, despite being endlessly polite with him. He just doesn’t seem to have the time for her, only offering short bits of conversation before he makes some excuse to have to slip out and go back to his own shop. She’s even realized that, despite both of them living in the same direction, he makes a point of leaving far earlier than her shop closes so that there’s never an instance of them running into each other.

She’d be offended if she weren’t so angry.

Daisy has managed to talk her down from angrily stomping over there because she’s terrible under pressure and the last thing she needs to do is cause a rift big enough that Mack has to be involved and their shop under siege. Both she and Bobbi seem to get along with him fine, though, and the only time she’s ever heard him sound like he’s enjoying himself is through conversations with them that he has before she emerges and he suddenly has to go clip the roses.

There’s days when she’s so exasperated that it almost drives her insane. She doesn’t know why this man hates her so much, or why every time she brings it up to her co-workers and good friends that they both share this look of incredulousness between them.

“Jemma,” Bobbi asks slowly. “Are you sure he hates you?” She’s bridging on something that Jemma has no time to explore before their first customer of the day walks in and interrupts their conversation.

She’s more than happy to quell her anger with the design this man has helped her put together in honor of his father.

 

* * *

 

The morning begins as any other. She walks down the snow covered sidewalks and steps toward her shop, says good morning to everyone she sees, most of whom greet her back. Every one except Fitz, who drops a pot when she speaks and mutters angrily underneath his breath before dipping inside. The sun is blaring outside and against the snow, it hurts her eyes but she storms in his shop before Daisy and Bobbi can hear her and stop her and blurts out the very question that’s been driving her absolutely mad. “Why do you hate me?”

He stops in his place, holding a piece of broken clay shard in his palm and looks over at her slowly, eyes wide and not at all expecting a confrontation. He stumbles over his words and eventually presses his lips together, shaking his head, apparently intending to let this one slide.

She, on the other hand, has another idea. She’s too riled up, far too angry to even see straight. “I have done absolutely nothing to make you angry, been extremely polite – for the love of God, I’ve even started playing the music quieter and I’ve conformed to every complaint you have, and yet you still hate me. What have I done to deserve this unwavering hatred?”

His mouth opens and closes like a fish for a couple of minutes and he drops the piece of broken clay into a box, sighing a little.

“I don’t hate you, Jemma,” he says finally and she cocks an eyebrow in disbelief. Silence creeps around them for several minutes and she feels the anger brush underneath her skin once more. It was obvious, wasn’t it? Of course he hated her, there was no other explanation as to why he slipped out of the room every time she answered or didn’t answer her good mornings, but instead stepped back into his shop and pretended he hadn’t heard her greeting.

He was just an angry, cruel man who held a grudge better than she did, even though she wasn’t sure why he was holding a grudge at all.

“I just… I don’t know what to say to you half the time, you’re incredibly smart and you wrote that dissertation on the effects of dendrotoxin on the human body that wound up in Scientific American and the only thing I’ve done is put together a damn _model_ of something I might like to explore the options of and –“ he then went off on a tangent about the ins and outs of the potential model while she stood there, stunned.

Most people didn’t know that she had a Doctorate in Biochemistry, one that she could use if she wanted to but the mistress that was tattooing had seduced her many years before and she found it so fascinating, seeing a piece of her own artwork on the skin of someone, seeing their reaction. The few years she spent holed up in a Quinn Entreprise lab, she’d hated. Despite everything she’d put in, her heart soul and pieces of her that she left behind while studying, she’d took her life savings and invested in what was now _Incroyable_.

That had been written years before, too long for her to even remember the stress of getting the letter from the Magazine who offered to publish it after Weaver told her she’d submitted it to them. Too long to remember the disappointment in her superior when she’d decided not to pursue a career. How could he…

“You read my article?”

He stops, apparently still in the midst of his tangent and pinks, glancing down. “Of course I did, Simmons,” he sounds incredulous as he speaks, like he can’t believe she wouldn’t have. “Your research prompted an avenue of data I might have been able to explore if my Mum hadn’t died that same year.”

There’s silence between them but it’s uneasy, like he’s not sure how to proceed. It’s been almost a year since he took up shop next to her and she’s spent every moment since assuming he just didn’t want anything to do with her. It makes her head spin a little, and she doesn’t know if she should apologize or be more enraged that he hadn’t just stepped up and revealed the truth to her in the first place.

He glances back and forth between the carpeted flooring and her face, gauging her reaction. But her face is blank and her mind is rolling. “Jemma?”

She snaps out of it, staring him down. “You don’t hate me?”

Fitz stares back for a moment and shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs. “Quite the opposite really.”

They become quasi friends after that.

 

* * *

 

Fitz fingers the top of his cigarette pack as he waits outside, flipping it around in his palms before quietly shoving it in his pocket just as she steps out, looking at him with a softer look. She doesn’t think she’s even seen Fitz spoking personally and wonders if maybe she’d stepped in on his attempt to clench the craving but he greets her peacefully and then Bobbi and Daisy behind her, who seem subdued despite the fact that she knows both of them have been dying to get his side of Jemma’s blow up a couple of weeks before.

When they depart from her co-workers, she can hear them tittering behind her and throws a quiet look behind her and catches Daisy mouth something that looks like “wear protection” before she flips them both off, laughing quietly when she hears their surprised laughter behind her.

Turning back toward him, she shoots him a shy smile that he returns. After learning that they were both fans of Doctor Who and then learning that the newest Christmas special would be offered in the cinema, he’d promptly asked her to accompany him, a treat on him. She’d spent the whole week convincing her friends (and herself) that it wasn’t a date, but rather two friends spending a night together. Fitz didn’t seem to think it was either, just by the way he hadn’t changed from the clothes he’d worn all day or fixed his hair but she didn’t mind the influx of floral scents engulfing her as they walked together toward the cinema just a block down.

“What made you want to become a florist?” She asks quietly, fingering the edge of the long tattoo covering her arm. It was a large floral design that Fitz had quietly appreciated one of the first times they’d spoken for it’s detail and likeness before he’d gone back to Mr. Grumpy Pants. He still admired it now, as well as the tattooed bouquet of hydrangeas on her thigh, peaking out from the edge of her skirt.

By now, she’d learned that he’d always dreamed of becoming an engineer when he was younger, spent most of his youth taking things apart and putting them together and even the lack of funding hadn’t been something to hinder his dreams, as his marks had been substantial enough to win a scholarship here in America. The death of his mother had been a hard hit, and his grades had dropped substantially enough in the coming months that he’d been expelled and dropped from the scholarship shortly after. She knew that he could more than likely afford to go back if he wanted, the shop having been successful despite (and because of) the move just a year and a bit back.

“Mum was a florist back in Scotland,” he answers as he turns the corner, bumping her hip as they did. “I grew up around every kind of flower you could imagine and I was always very good with my hands,” he confessed and pinked at the meaning she could pick up from it, and she laughed, pinking too. “I used to think that if I got stuck in Glasgow that it would be inevitable for me to just slip into the shop when she was done with it, and maybe after she was gone I still wanted to keep a part of me with her so I opened up Marie’s – that’s her name, you know – and I’ve never been more content since.”  

Her smile is soft and hesitant because they don’t talk about his Mum much. They’ll talk about her parents and sister, Allison, back in Sheffield and how they constantly want her to come back ( _for just a short while, Jemma_ ) and he’s particularly fond of the way she mimics her mother and how she moved over here the same way he did, but gave up her dream when another, surprisingly bigger one, came to her one day. But they don’t talk about how his Dad left them both when he was too young to remember him, or how Marie Fitz spent every last penny she had on a plane ticket when he told her he’d been accepted to MIT at age 15 and how she hadn’t told him of her cancer until it was too late to do anything.

She thinks some things are left better unsaid.

They don’t say anything else until they slip into the cinema and he offers to let her save their sheets while he runs for concessions and she nods, slipping into the semi dark room and saving two in the back. When he joins her a handful of minutes later, the special is just beginning to start.

“Thank you,” she says as the sound of the Who theme music plays. “For sharing that with me.”

Fitz’s smile is hesitant too, but it grows slowly. “Of course,” he says softly and looks like he wants to stay something else, but they’re both interrupted by Peter Capaldi’s voice booming through the speakers.

She ends up watching her companion a lot more than she ends up watching the special, but can’t figure out why.

 

* * *

 

Their friendship evolves, to lunches and dinners and spending time at his flat and then hers watching any program they both find interesting and going to pubs together late at night until they went from being two different entities to “Fitz-Simmons”, as lovingly dubbed by their friends. Simmons forgets that there was a point in their relationship where she thought they hated one another and instead gains new memories and new stories of his past.

He becomes her best friend so instantly, and she finds herself confiding in him even quicker than she would with Daisy, which is strange to her. Daisy and Bobbi ask weird questions about her friendship with Fitz and she tries not too think too much about it, easily brushing them off.

She tries not to think about the smiles and silent conversations they share when they think she’s not looking, too.

When July becomes August, and then his birthday comes upon them, she insists on spending the night with him as “no one should be alone for their birthday” and the fact that he had in fact been the last birthday they knew one another. Going on two years now of being side by side (give or take a few months) as partners and just under the cusp of a year as friends, she thinks she’s deserved her right. He doesn’t argue, of course, but when the day comes and she comes to his flat early in the morning to find him pale and shaky, she knows his birthday will be a lot different than she’d planned.

She sends a quiet text to Daisy and asks that she let everyone else know.

On the bedside table is the cigarette pack that she bites her tongue from chastising him about and he’s curled around the pillow on his side, feeling like he’s aching all over and that the world is too bright. She’s not surprised to see a picture of a monkey on his wall, but surprised that she hasn’t noticed it before.

“You should go home,” he says when she kicks off her shoes and settles at his side. She brushes her fingers across his forehead and presses her palm down, sighing a little at the burning sensation underneath her hand. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

“And who’s going to make sure you get enough liquids and eat enough until you get better?” She doesn’t know how long this has been going on, but she knows that Fitz is notorious when he is in full health to spend almost a full day before he properly eats food. He’ll always argue that the snacks he carries around is enough and that he’s constantly eating, but he needs something more fulfilling than a Quaker snack bar and they both know it.

Much the same, she can’t imagine that he’s eaten that well since he took sick either.

“Jemma,” his voice is muffled as he presses his face to the pillow and groans a little. “I’ll be fine, I promise, I mean… don’t feel compelled to stay, alright? I’ve taken care of myself for the last twenty-nine years, I’ll be fine this time too.”

She rolls her eyes and doesn’t let him argue any further, moving into the ensuite to grab a cool, wet face cloth and pressing it to his forehead as she moves into the kitchen. It only takes her a couple of minutes to sift through his cupboards and find an unlabeled can of soup in the back of his cupboard.

When she shows it to him, he almost laughs before it turns into coughing. “When I was younger, I was a rough eater. Wouldn’t eat anything besides hot dogs and pizza, so Mum used to take the labels off of everything and serve it to me in a can. Including cans of soup, so I couldn’t read the ingredients and see vegetables or anything.” The smile on his face is fond, but tired. “I got into a habit of doing it, but I think that one’s Chicken noodle if you’re curious.”

He’s asleep by the time she comes back with it, but she lays it on his beside table and brushes her fingers through his hair, sitting with him for a while before Daisy texts her and lets her know that there was a leak in the bathroom of her apartment. She’s not even sure how Daisy knows, considering they don’t live anywhere close to one another, but has her suspicion on the culprit.

Jemma writes him a note and leaves it on his pillow, dusting a kiss against his temple before she can stop himself.

He’s fine in a couple of days, but somehow finds himself sitting on the edge of her bed just a few days later as she whines about all the things they share and how this shouldn’t have been one of them. Fitz doesn’t say I told you so, but he thinks it very loudly.

 

* * *

 

One of the first thing she learned about Fitz was how much he hated needles. And not in the childlike “I had an experience with a Nurse once who jabbed too hard” way. No, he plain hated needles, used to shrivel up every time he was in the shop and he could hear the sound of one piercing the skin of someone or if he walked in and she was packing them away in medically safe containers.

So, she’s surprised when he comes with a small design and asks her to tattoo it on his bicep for him. It’s a small, minimalistic bird – a dove, she thinks – wrapped in a breast cancer ribbon. “They were her favorite,” he murmured softly. “I’ve always wanted one – a tattoo, I mean – but… needles and… yeah.”

Jemma looks over the design and then him. “So why now?”

He looks at her, taking only a beat before he says confidently. “I trust you.”

The sentiment does nothing but warm her heart and she agrees immediately, scheduling him to his comfort (which turns out to be the next immediate date as any length of time will give him time to think about what he’s actually doing). She ends up rescheduling yet another infinity sign tattoo to fit him in the very next day, but she’s not even bothered by it.

Fitz is a bundle of nerves when he shows up the next day, bright and early. He’d decided not to open up his shop today, instead giving himself a day off while attempting to process the idea of actually getting this one. They’d decided together to get it on his bicep, because his shirts were always long sleeved and even if they were pushed up to his elbows, which they almost always were, it would conceal it. It would be like a little secret only they had.

He said he liked the way that sounded, so they went for it.

Arguably, he wasn’t one of her worst customers. He did flinch when the needle came out and then whimper a little at the feeling of it piercing his skin again and again, but he didn’t ask her to stop incessantly and she wondered if that might have been because he didn’t want to brace for it to start again. When it was finished, she wiped it off and let him see it in the mirror.

“Jemma,” he murmured, softly and in awe. “It’s beautiful.”

She had to agree, and not at all because she was the artist but because of the reaction he had. Some people’s reactions always left her a little stung because they would put on a brave face and tell her it was nice but it wasn’t at all what they wanted and then others would flat out say it was awful and try to refuse to pay. But the customers that had fallen in love with the design and had committed themselves to it were always the most beautiful reactions to watch.

But Fitz’s reaction was something altogether. She wasn’t sure how to describe it, the way she felt when he looked at her through the mirror and told her it was beautiful, or the way he couldn’t stop staring at it. Or how, when it was finally healed, he wore t-shirts for a week just to show anyone who wanted to see this beautiful piece she’d done.

It would be the only tattoo he’d get, but it was enough for the both of them. When the winter months crept in and the cold enveloped them, he went back to wearing the button ups and she stopped seeing the tees, but she knew the design hidden behind the fabric and smiled at the spot every time they spoke.

 

* * *

 

A month later, after they’re both done for the day, he texts to ask her up to rooftop to watch the meteor shower and she slinks in, not long after the text has sent through. Her cheeks pink with the cold and her oversized grey beanie covers most of her hair but he can’t help to think of how beautiful she looks.

“Hi,” she whispers when she settles in by his side.

“Good evening,” he murmurs back, a soft smile grazing his lips.

Brushing shoulders, she stares up at the expanse of sky and inhales the scent of gardenias and hydrangeas – her personal favorite – coming from his clothes. The stars twinkle with the soft wind, the moon only half shown but still so magnificent. To her side, she sees him reach for the pack of cigarettes again. “I never thought of you as a smoker,” she comments, without looking at him.

She wonders if she should maybe supply that it wouldn’t be an issue if he was, but he always smells like daffodils and daisies mixed together in sweet harmony and not at all like the rough stench of burnt tobacco and nicotine. (Not that she’s noticed.) To her side, he looks up at her and she can sense the movement before she sees it out of the corner of her eye.

He slides the pack in front of her and she glances down, watching as he pops open the top, a laugh caught in her throat.

Of course this big Nerd of a friend she has carries around a pack of M&M’s disguised as cigarettes.

There’s a hidden meaning behind it that she doesn’t ask about now because she doesn’t think it’s her place to ask for that kind of information. Instead, she reaches down and grabs a red one from the top and plops it in her mouth, grinning over her shoulder at him.

Fitz thinks (for a brief second) that he wants to freeze this moment in time forever.

“Fitz?” She asks in a quiet voice, looking up at him through the snow as it begins to softly fall around them. She leans her head against his shoulder. “You’re really one of my best friends.”

It takes all he has to hold back the, “you’re more than that,” on his lips.

 

* * *

 

Something changes after that night for her, but she’s not sure what it was. Their relationship doesn’t change, neither does his attitude, but she finds herself spending more time with him in her down time – somehow more than before – and missing him when he’s not around. There’s a relief that comes whenever he steps into the room, something she can’t even begin to tangibly describe and doesn’t feel like she should. They’ve been extremely close since that first fight between them and she finds that she can’t think of what her life might be without him.

So naturally, something has to happen about that.

Jemma gets an email from Elena early in the morning the week after Christmas that Mack’s mother has passed away, and in a few weeks once the estate has been settled, they’ll be moving back home. She’s overcome with emotions and calls them, even though the two-and-a-half-hour difference leaves it just past four in the morning there and isn’t surprised to have them pick up right away.

She had become close to them in her own way, even babysit Alfie from time to time if they needed it and she grieved with Mack, for she wasn’t sure herself what she would do if she received that call. Never mind to be watching it happen for the last couple of years.

The phone call takes a lot out of her and she situates the grief away until a week later when Fitz slips into the shop. It’s quiet and Bobbi and Daisy are both away with clients while she sits up at the reception area, thumbing through a magazine. A soft smile graces her cheeks as he steps forward, looking somewhat sullen.

“Uh, I suppose you’ve heard the news?” He raises an eyebrow and she nods quietly, chewing on her lower lip. Sometimes she forgets that he and Mack were as close as they were, that Fitz had come to occupy the space while Mack was gone. “I’ll be offering Mack back his location, if he wants it.”

She’s not sure why he’s telling her this, nor is she sure why it feels like he outright stabbed her straight through the gut, but she nods anyway. “Where will you go?” His shop is always popular, and she almost always sees people inside if she ducks inside to see. And, well, he’s never had a complaint about business before. Would having to move location ruin the business.

“I think I’m going to finish school, actually,” he tells her and she feels a sense of pride. “It’s been a while and I think at this point they’ll ask me to start the whole program again but I’ve… I’ve been accepted back into MIT.”

Her mood easily diminishes and she feels, oddly, like she’s about to cry. Nonetheless, she stands up and presses him into the tightest hug and tells him congratulations. If he feels the tears on the back of his neck or sees them in her eyes when they pull away, he doesn’t mention it. “You’re going to be great,” she tells him because there’s nothing in this world he can’t do and she knows his brilliant mind by now. This degree will only open up avenues for him that she can’t even begin to think about.

Less than a month later, _Marie’s_ is nothing but a distant memory and so is Fitz.

 

* * *

 

They keep in contact as best as possible, but as the months turn to years, it becomes difficult. Alfie gets a little sister that they name Annalisa, for Mack’s mother, and the day in the hospital becomes the last time she sees him without meaning to. The lack of communication bothers her far more than it should and she wonders if it makes sense.

“Of course it does,” Daisy tells her one night while they’re snuggled up in front of the fireplace watching some trashy tv show on the telly. “You’re bound to miss someone you love and care about.”

In all the time she’s spent missing Fitz, she’s never thought about things and how they ended between them. How she’d cried so hard the day he flew out that he almost missed his flight because he just didn’t want to let go of her. How there would be hours where they would just lay there on the phone with one another just listening to the other breath. How it was quite possible that she’d loved him long before he left and that whole ‘absence makes the heart fonder’ bullshit was totally not at play.

But the thing was, looking back she couldn’t pinpoint an exact time when she knew, without a doubt in her mind, that she loved this man. She’d spent enough time with him that she knew his schedule better than he did at times, brought him dinner and lunches whenever she knew he was in the middle of a big arrangement that he would lose himself in and forget to eat. He would bring over her favorite smoothie, on one of the isolated moments they weren’t walking together, for no other reason than the fact that he’d walked by the shop on his way to work that morning. They were so intimately entwined with the other that it was honest for people to say that they were practically the same person.

In a way, she felt like maybe it’d always been there because she remembered times that she was in complete awe of him. The first time they fought and he confessed to her that he was just trying to find something to say to her because he always found it hard. The second time they went out for dinner at the same place and he knew her exact order, knowing how she liked to have things exactly right. The time that he let her tattoo him because he trusted her. The first night he accidentally fell asleep on her couch watching Doctor Who and he woke up early in the morning, despite not being a morning person, to get them both breakfast.

And so many more.

“Daisy,” she murmured softly, laying her cheek against the back of the couch. Her friend looked from the telly to her. “How do you know when you're in love?”

“All the songs make sense.”

 

* * *

 

_Jemma!_

_I took a picture of this and made it into a postcard because I knew you would get a kick out of it. They made us dissect worms today (totally gross and unnecessary? I’m here to take mechanical things apart!)_

_Wish you were here,_

_Fitz._

 

* * *

 

**Three years later**

A man in a suit crept into _Incroyable_ one day, many years later and stared around the room until he took another few tentative steps in her direction and stopped. She lifted her head to look up at him, smiling softly. He was balding and on the shorter side, but he looked friendly enough. “Are you Jemma Simmons?” He asked, looking at her quietly, his features turning sullen. She nodded her head. “I’m Agent Phil Coulson, is there somewhere we can talk?”

In a matter of minutes, he explained why he was here and who he was – actually Director Phil Coulson, now, but it was still a new thing. Jemma felt as though, all of a sudden, the world around her had just stopped. In the quiet of her office, the man sat across from her and told her tales about Agent Leopold Fitz, pulled straight from MIT to S.H.I.E.L.D. academy where he graduated at the top of his class in under a year and had his Doctorate a year later. (Things she already knew, but had been told they were from MIT.)

Agent Fitz was appointed the head of the science division on Director Coulson’s plane (called a BUS for some reason) several months back. He and another agent, whom Direction Coulson didn’t disclose the name of the other agent, had been on board of the plane when it had been hijacked by Hydra and had been the unfortunate victims of an agent who had double crossed them all and dropped them in a MedPod in the middle of the ocean.

The unnamed Agent died from blunt force trauma and Agent Fitz was found several hours after this happened, deprived of oxygen and almost dead. He’d been in a coma for several days and woke up miraculously, but was left, as a result, severely brain damaged. He had a hard time putting together words and remembering certain actions and was often left frustrated and isolated.

The news hit Jemma harder than she could have imagined. She remembered Fitz the day he had told her that he was going back to school. It felt like a lifetime ago now, but she could still remember how excited he’d been at the promise of a new start and she thought about him now, hardly speaking to anyone, keeping himself isolated. It reminded her of when they first met.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” She finally said, after he explained once more that any information given in this meeting was confidential. She gulped in air and pushed it out just as fast, trying to keep her composure and not cry in front of the stranger for Fitz and for everything that he had lost since. She wanted to ask if they’d caught the man who’d done it, because a part of her had already considered the payback she would give him if given half a chance.

Director Coulson sat up a little straighter and looked at her. For a moment, she watched him, carefully analyzing his movements and wondering what was going through his head. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Well, see, Ms. Simmons, while we were looking through some of Fitz’s files we found the outgoing messages and notes to you and of course, we had our specialist look into you. From there, we found your papers – specifically the one on dendrotoxin – and honestly, your work was brilliant until you gave it up.”

Jemma stopped suddenly, narrowing her eyes in his direction and frowning. “You’re here to offer me a job?”

Coulson gave her a half witty grin. “Well, we are down a Biochemist.”

 

* * *

 

 

Fitz was pacing the lab when she was escorted onto the plane and she stopped, looking over at him. From the corner of her eye, she saw Coulson shake off the security around her and she sighed heavily. “You can go in and see him, you know,” he said quietly, as though he knew not to push her. She thanked him quietly for that.

After a moment, she stepped toward the door and jumped a little when it automatically popped open. She swallowed a little harder than she intended and stepped through the door, watching the eyes around the room follow to where she stood, including his. He stopped short, fiddling with his thumb.

“Jemma,” he murmured softly, quietly. She bit back tears and swallowed again. “Is it really you?”

She laughed, wet and shaky and took another step toward him. He stayed in the same spot. “Of course,” she said softly, aching to hug him, to breathe in his scent. “Who else would it be?”

He looked torn between being relieved and sad in that moment, looking between the spot beside him and then her and then took a few tentative steps in her direction until they were pushed chest to chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck before he could pull away and he pressed his face into her neck, his right arm twisting around her waist.

“It’s go-good to see you,” he said softly, his voice watery now too.

Suddenly, she couldn’t find the words to express the same, but she knew that he knew she did, in fact, feel it. She tightened her grip as best as she could and tried not to point out his shaking left hand at her side, because she’d read the file and she knew it was his worst and instead pressed happy kisses against his neck because he was alive, and he was safe, even if he wasn’t the same.

He’d always be her Fitz.

 

* * *

 

Fitz was well liked among their colleagues, which made her feel a little bit more at ease, but some of them did feel as though he was to be treated as though he was glass. Easy mistake, but Fitz had been brilliant before and brain damage wouldn’t completely erase that. Especially not if she were there to help him out. He found it easier around her to speak, especially because she knew the endings to all of his sentences and supplied the words he just couldn’t find.

It annoyed him at first, but it only took one stern lecture on how the only thing she was trying to do there was help him out for him to stop arguing with her, and start working with her. Together, they took her hypothesis for the dendrotoxin that she’d given so many years before and placed it in the form of a weapon. The purpose was only to subdue the person involved, not injure them, and when no one was around, she’d call it the Night-Night gun (Fitz’s idea) to make him happy.

In all the years that they’d known each other, they’d never worked professionally together so it was a bit of a surprise to see how well they ended up working together. There were spats, especially if Fitz thought she was speaking too much for him, and days when he’d hole up in the corner of the lab and refuse to speak to her – although she had a feeling that was more of a mood thing than anything else, and didn’t pry.

Fitz had his good days and his bad days, and today was one of the bad days.

Once she’d begun her career in S.H.I.E.L.D., Jemma had been given access to the files that heavily detailed the day and the events in which Agent Fitz and Agent Markoff were corned into the MedPod by former Agent Ward and then said MedPod was dropped rom the plane, hundreds of feet down, until it sunk at the bottom of the ocean. Agent Markoff had died due to blunt force trauma almost immediately, but Agent Fitz had survived the crash but broken his arm. The injury made it impossible for him to swim to shore, no matter how easy it would have been for him to rig something up to be able to break from the pod.

So he stayed there for several hours until former Director Nicholas Fury found him and dragged him up from the depths of the ocean. Unfortunately, the oxygen in the MedPod had been consistently low for too long of a time and the decompression chamber he’d been immediately shoved inside once brought up could only do so much. The brain injury had lapsed him into a coma by the time they were able to rescue him and he remained like that for nine days.

When he’d woken up, his first words had been [redacted].

And she knew too well that the study of the brain was severely incomplete, and there wasn’t a lot of information that any of the neurologists they brought in – almost twelve of them, if she counted them right – could provide and knew that it would almost always be one way or the other in terms of his potential recovery. Brain injuries were documented by each injury was different, the way the brain reacted was different.

Therefore, there wasn’t an expiry date on his good and bad days, and she didn’t mind because even on his bad days, he didn’t want to be left alone forever. He’d curl closer to her, making their colleagues laugh about personal space, at any given point on a regular day but it was almost as though it became much stronger of a need to be with her and also away from her and everyone else on his bad days.

Jemma pushed a curl away from her face as she looked at the screen in front of her. Fitz was hovering, not giving much input on the DNA strand she was looking at, but she didn’t really need it. It was unlike anything that she’d seen before, although she knew she was a few (almost ten) years out of practice now and she could easily be staring at something quite normal and just a rarity in her mind.

“It’s di-dif-different,” he looked proud when he finally got the word out and she gave him a beaming smile in reward. “Than regular human DNA, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” she agreed, and not just because he needed positive reinforcement, but because she was right. He had to do a high level biology course – Agent Markoff’s request – in order to be able to work with her, so she appreciated his comments as he had more of a newer look at the data. Maybe she should have retaken the high level course before she came back into it, but Director Coulson was confident that she’d be a perfect fit, out of practice or not.

“Fitz?” She hummed as she zoomed in on it and pointed at something in particular. He leaned over her shoulder, pushing a little too close. “What do you see here?” He raised his eyebrows and grinned softly.

“Eureka.”

* * *

 

 

Jemma spent more time in the area of one of the only above ground windows in the early parts of the morning than anywhere else on base, including her own room. The outside always calmed her, reminded her that there was a world outside counting on her and her team and she had to put herself together and work her damnedest to stop whatever was coming – be it the latest outbreak, or a rogue Avenger who had turned his back on his friends and S.H.I.E.L.D. to protect an old friend.

But the thing she liked most about this place was right before sunrise, and how quiet it was as the sun peaked up over the distant mountains and washed warm sunlight over her features. She did this almost every morning, so much so that it became a ritual.

One morning, she turned the corner and saw Fitz there. He didn’t even seem mildly embarrassed to be caught, which was something she was oddly happy about. Instead, he turned and looked at her with the brightest of grins. “Thought I’d jo-join you,” he said, slowly getting better with his sentences. “Is that okay?”

Jemma looked at him, a similar smile – she was sure – mimicking on her features. “Of course, Fitz,” she said softly and leaned up against the brick wall, looking out through the window into the dawn of the morning.

Fitz was never a morning person, so it made her wonder if he’d slept at all, but she didn’t ask. There were certain parts of their friendship that she wasn’t sure she still had privy to, and didn’t want to pressure him while he was still healing and still getting used to her being there. Three years was a lot of time for someone to be absent in your life, and she understood if there were days when he truly needed a break from it all. She heard rustling beside her and turned to see him popping the lid of the worn cigarette pack, popping a couple of M&M’s from the top of it. And then, without a question, he offered it to her. She took a couple of red ones and smiled her appreciation.

“When I was yo-yo-yo…” he clenched his fist and sighed softly. “Small, my Mum used to smo-smoke really bad. Couldn’t quit the stuff. I never liked it. So I would d-du-dump her packs out and fill them with M&M’s.” He laughed softly and she did too, leaning a little closer to listen to him as his voice grew softer. “She used to get so bl-bloody mad at me,” he commented quietly.

Jemma paused and took another red one, lifting it to her lips. “Why do you still fill it up?” She asked curiously before popping it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

It took Fitz a long time to answer and she wondered if, maybe, she shouldn’t have asked. It’d been years since that night on the rooftop when he’d first shown her the pack filled to the brim with M&M’s and she’d thought of how much of a nerd her best friend was. But it was deeper than that, it was something that kept him grounded.

“She qu-quit smoking because of it,” he told her softly. “Every… every time she wanted a smoke, she’d pop a candy instead.” Fitz took a deep breath and grimaced. “It reminds me that… there’s al-always a reason to pi-pick up and mo-move on.” He clenched his fist again and seemingly counted in his head.

Jemma straightened her back and grabbed the left hand, wrapping her fingers around it and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” she said quietly, squeezing his hand.

He dusted a kiss against her hair line and nodded quietly. Together, they watched the sun rise and dust them in sunlight.

 

* * *

 

Jemma was cleared for missions long before Fitz would be, and for a long time she’d gotten out of them, letting their colleagues bring back dusty samples that would inevitably become contaminated because neither of them really listened to the directions the lab technicians would give them when placing them in samples. Inevitably, she knew the day was going to come when asking to be left out of another field mission would be denied, but she’d never seen Coulson so mournful about it.

“Sorry, Jemma,” he said in a rough voice. He rarely used her first name, which kept her on edge and she straightened a little, looking at him. “We need all hands on deck for this one – there’s been a kidnapping of a high level operative and we need the manpower. Or, in your case, womanpower.”

Jemma smiled a little at the light that shone in his eyes as the dumb joke slipped out. Jemma was cleared for missions, but not as fighting power. She’d be good as dead if they asked her to take out men the way Natasha Romanoff did and her expertise seemed almost wasted here. If there wasn’t some intergalactic being behind the kidnapping, then she wasn’t exactly sure where her place on this mission was at all. “Sir?” She asked softly, gauging on how to approach this. “Not to be… that person, but, I haven’t been cleared for combat.”

“Oh!” He seemed deeply in awe about that fact, but if he were, he didn’t bring it up. “I’m not asking you for combat, Agent Simmons, I’m asking you on board for the medical team. I know you’re not technically a doctor, but you have all the qualifications and like I said, we need all hands on deck today.”

Jemma didn’t dare cast a glance back at the room behind her or even wondering if Fitz had been watching because she had a sneaking suspicion she already knew the answer. “And what about Agent Fitz, Sir?”

Coulson looked behind her and sighed a little, turning back. “Agent Fitz will remain on the premises with a few of our brightest agents, holding down the fort until we can return.” Jemma mustn’t have looked pleased by this answer, because he was quick to send out a soft apology and try to dip out. He stopped, though, just before he curved around the corner toward his office. “Wheels up in 30, Agent Simmons.”

Jemma turned slowly toward Fitz, staring achingly in his direction and then took off in the direction of her bunk.

 

* * *

 

 

She learned very quickly that the operative they were looking for was one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s highest level operatives, but nobody would give her a straight answer on who the man or woman might be. Minutes turned to hours and the constant turn around of agents coming in for stitching or for possibly heavier wounds was monotonous.

Jemma remembered being much younger when she’d told her mother about her dreams to study biochemistry and her mother had tried to push her into being a Doctor. Allison at the time had been studying toward her medical degree herself and a part of her knew she’d gone on the complete opposite side of her sister just out of pettiness. But now, sitting in a room full of S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors and nurses, she felt nothing more than a lowly intern herself.

She was suddenly reminded why she ended up giving up the career in the first place, having found much more freedom and creativity in the years she had put into her career in tattooing. At least her patients were usually grateful and not disgruntled agents who wanted her to finish up quicker so they could either prove themselves to S.H.I.E.LD., or to die for them.

She sighed a little, grabbing a clean pair of medical gloves as another man slouched his way toward her table and stopped when the sound of a gun shot piercing the air sounded much closer than it should have been. Lifting her gaze, she caught sight of an unfamiliar man leading a group of heavy set goons, all with massive guns that pointed in their direction.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man said, his voice dark and deep and sultry. “I’m going to need you to put your weapons down. This is not a fight you’re going to win.”

 

* * *

 

 

The man, whom most around her seemed to recognize and had begun calling him _Ward_ , instructed them to line up against the back wall and those who faltered and tried to stand up to him were immediately shot. Her ears were ringing from the sound of bullets as they emerged from the barrel of the gun and she wasn’t sure why the name Ward sounded so familiar.

Jemma forced her gaze down, not staring at the wall now covered in bodies and hoped that everything she’d learned about S.H.I.E.L.D. through orientation wasn’t glossed up to look nice and that they’d have someone there to help them as soon as possible before the whole room of them was dead. Now pacing up and down the length of the wall, Ward stopped in front of her and crouched down, tipping her chin up with the edge of his barrel, keeping the muzzle against her neck. She swallowed hard.

“You’re new here,” he said softly, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve met almost every person in this room and the hatred they have for me is, arguably, valid but you’re indifferent. You don’t know who I am at all.” Ward seemed pleased by this fact, like it would be easy to manipulate her to whatever side he stood for. “What’s your name, Doctor?”

There was a whimper at her side and she didn’t dare break eye contact to look at the younger woman who seemed devastated by his presence. “Jemma Simmons,” she said strongly, resilience pouring out of her.

This Ward stopped, furrowing his eyebrows now and lifting the gun. Without meaning to, she let out a long breath of relief and shuddered a little. “Wait,” he said, laughing. “ _The_ Jemma Simmons, Fitz’s Jemma?”

Suddenly the name Ward felt like a bunch in the gut. His name was mostly redacted in the files she’d poured over time and time again, the files that had become bedtime reading for the first few weeks she’d been there, trying to understand what exactly had happened to Fitz but they only had the information he could provide for them. There’d been no security camera inside the MedPod, but she’d assumed that it wouldn’t have mattered if there were anyway. But the name Ward wasn’t used in anyway helpful for that file.

He’d been the one to corner Agents Fitz and Markoff into the MedPod and press the button, leaving them both to die in the bottom of the ocean.

Jemma felt fury ignite in her veins and she breathed out roughly, clenching her fists at her side. This man was the reason why Fitz was different, why he had become isolated and distant from anyone because he felt lesser, as though he wasn’t equal to them any more. The reason why Fitz would ask her to share his ideas because he couldn’t stand the looks of sympathy or the laughs when it took him longer than necessary to describe the infrastructure of something they were asking about.

He was always going to be the same Fitz he was when they knew each other despite everything. He was always going to be her Fitz.

“Take her and kill everyone else,” Ward stood back up and directed to his goons. “She’s suddenly become much more useful to us.”

 

* * *

 

“How’s Fitzy doing anyway?”

Being strapped to a hard plastic chair turned out to be the least of the torture she was going through. Instead, it was Ward’s questions about Fitz and the team and how everyone was doing. Like he hadn’t double crossed everyone of them and tried to kill over half of the team, but instead had just left it to pursue other options.

She hated everything about him and refused to talk, even if it meant her life would be on the line in the end. S.H.I.E.L.D. had trained her in immense torturous experiments before she could even step foot in the underground facility. It was all about building rapport and ensuring that she wouldn’t squeal S.H.I.E.L.D. secrets if ever in a position like this. So, while it had been annoying to sit in a chair and have countless tests performed for days on end, she was thankful to them now.

Not that she’d have given this piece of shit anything in the first place, but nonetheless.

“You’re a quiet one,” he commented, dragging the edge of his gun against her neck again. He did it every few minutes, just to remind her – she supposed – that he could and probably would kill her given half a chance. “Fitz used to say that you were his other half, knew everything he was thinking before even he did, and yet your lips are sealed.”

He bent down to look her in the eye again, something that slightly unsettled her although she fought to ensure he didn’t know that. She knew better than to let him see any weaknesses of hers, in spite of the fact that she knew that Fitz was a big one. She’d quit her dream job and flew across the country the moment Director Coulson had stopped off at her tattoo parlour and let her know that Fitz had been hurt and their team needed her, that Fitz needed her more.

“Is he not thinking much lately, Agent Simmons?” His smirk was cruel and worn, but she won’t give into it. Director Coulson must know that she’s gone by now, there has to be a team on the way for her. All she has to do is survive until they can get there.

(Or maybe they’ll just think of her as a causality and cut their losses.)

Ward stands suddenly when one of the goons approach, whispering into his ear. “Well,” he said as they stepped back and he looked straight down at her, the wicked smile almost permanent on his face now. “It seems we have company.”

Her heart picked up in her chest as she lifted her eyes, searching the doorway for any signs of life. When the gun shots started ringing through the air, she tensed and pulled at the restrains hopelessly.

Ward looked back at her and raised his firearm, tilting his head to the side. “Sorry, Agent Simmons. It was nice chatting with you, but unfortunately – this is the end of the line.”

The bullet hit the center of her chest and she lurched forward, white hot pain slinking through her body and her vision until everything went black.

 

* * *

 

“… this was my fault. I-I… I asked for you. No-not directly, of course. I wouldn’t do that to you… you liked it in New York and at _Incroyable_. You were happy there.”

She could hear Fitz, but it sounded like he was a thousand miles away from her. Everything was foggy and she was in so much pain. Every breath felt like a stab to her heart. Jemma sunk a little further into sleep without meaning to, feeling heavy and altogether tired.

“Remember when we went to go see the Doctor Who Christmas Special?” Fitz’s voice was lulling her, so soft and gravelly, like he’d been crying, she thought. Jemma forced her eyes open, and through blurry vision, she looks around her. It only takes a moment to realize she’s in a hospital room and Fitz is sitting at her side, speaking to her. Every thing came back to her at once. Being kidnapped by the very man responsible for Fitz’s injuries, the news that someone had infiltrated their location, possibly in search for her and then… the gun shot. Breathing was painful.

“I think that was the day I knew I was in love with you. It wasn’t like that, that night. I just remember you coming out and you were so-so be-beautiful.”

Jemma’s breath catches in her throat and she turns her head, looking at him. He’s got her hand between his and it’s so close to his mouth that she can almost feel every movement of his lips. Or maybe that’s the morphine tricking her tired mind.

Fitz, too concentrated to notice that she was awake, continues. “And… and then I re-remember the day I told you I was gonna let Mack take up shop again and I was going to go to Massachusetts. I remember wa-wanting to tell you then… but what good would it have done?”

Thinking back, she’s not sure there was ever a moment when she was particularly aware that she’d fallen completely and madly in love with this man. The same that found the courage to tell her everything he’d been holding in only after the chance that he might have lost her forever had crossed his mind. And the bugger hadn’t even waited til she was properly awake.

She was infuriated and drugged up and wanting to roll her eyes until the next century over the cliché moment he’d propped himself up for. But… she couldn’t help but think she might like it. She squeezed her hand around his and watched him pop up, looking down at her. They exchanged quiet, tired smiles and she licked her lips, closing her eyes for just a second.

“Fitz,” Jemma murmured, feeling tired and heavy. “Say it again.”

When she opens her eyes again, he’s staring at her – wide eyed and slightly paler than before. She laughs a little, though the movement makes the sound turn into a groan. By the feel of it, the bullet either pierced or came very close to piercing her lung. “Jem, I,” he stuttered, for a different reason.

“Come off of it,” she murmurs, the smallest of smiles gracing her lips. “Tell me you love me again… except this time when I’m awake.”

Her words only seem to leave him more speechless and it takes him a moment but he shifts up in the chair, careful not to pull any cords or IV lines helping her heal and taking away a great bit of the pain. “I uh,” he grimaces. “This isn’t how I planned on te-telling you.”

For a moment, she lets herself imagine how he’d planned it out, how he’d probably sat up waiting and abiding his time and then decided to push it off until it was absolutely necessary because he was absolutely sure that there was no way she’d felt the same. In fact, perhaps he still did. She lifted her hand from between his and brushed back his unruly curls, which were getting too long now, and sighed a little.

“I love you, Fitz.” She says plainly. “Why do you think I left _Incroyable_ the moment Director Coulson told me you were injured and needed me?”

He pinks a little, like it’s a big surprise that she’d come back for him. Still, he leans into the palm of her hand and rubs the back of her arm slowly up and down, leaving goosebumps on her flesh. “Jemma, I’ve… I’ve loved you for a long while.”

“Apparently,” she grins and he blushes more, dipping his head. “I was a little slower than you were,” she tells him quietly. “Realized I loved you after you’d left.”

Fitz moves to look at her, quieter now than he was after they reunited. Quieter than she’d ever heard him be in the length of their friendship. She wondered if he was processing it all, or just trying to find the right thing to say. Jemma fought a yawn as it crept over her and grimaced.

“Do me a favor?” She murmured, forcing her eyes to stay open as another wave of sleepiness coursed over her. “Kiss me before I fall asleep on you.”

He was happy to oblige.

 

**Author's Note:**

> To Paige (Superirishbreakfasttea): I hope this wasn't as bad as I thought it was. I really did like it when I first write it and re-reading it, I think I might be just a little hard on myself but nonetheless. For what its worth, I really hope that this wasn't as bad as I'm thinking and you perhaps enjoyed the twist I took on your prompt. Happy Christmas, and Merry New Year. ;)


End file.
